The Hollow Detective
by Aris24
Summary: For a Prompt: Sherlock is literally starving, and stumbles into the flat emaciated and almost dead. John takes care of him, and that first night, feeds him. He eats barely anything, but it protrudes out of his thin frame and hurts him badly. All he wants is for John to take of him. Please note that if you do not do well with starvation or unhealthy eating habits Do not read!


_**Prompt: Sherlock is literally starving, and stumbles into the flat emaciated and almost dead. John takes care of him, and that first night, feeds him. He eats barely anything, but it protrudes out of his thin frame and hurts him badly. All he wants is for John to take of him.**_

Sherlock managed to push open the door to 221 B before his body finally gave out, but just barely. The stairs had done him in, his vision growing darker as he climbed up step after step. Then he stumbled and fell in a tangle of limbs upon the floor. He had a fleeting feeling of bliss. _Over_.

He must have passed out. Suddenly there were hands on him, warm slightly rough hands, small but strong, tugging gently at his side, touching his cheek. _John._ His arm ached dully underneath his own dead weight. He should have thought not to land on it... he was... he was still bleeding.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

John again. The detective opened his eyes, the lids fluttering as the world came into focus again. The flat. He'd made it home then. After... After the case. Yes.

"John," Sherlock grunted again, wincing and trying to shift off his injured shoulder. The throbbing was growing more persistent.

"Hey, take it easy now," John directed, his face swimming into view as he leaned over him. "Don't try to get up. Jesus, Sherlock, what happened?"

Ah, there it was, that tendril of concern that always sounded angry.

"I need... my arm," Sherlock gasped, looking up at John. He felt oddly helpless, like his muscles could no longer support his bones.

"You're hurt? Where?" John asked, his tone becoming clipped and professional. Sherlock couldn't help but smile faintly. His faithful army doctor.

"Near the left shoulder."

He made to shift, but John stopped him again, then rolled him gently onto his back. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as the torn shirt sleeve tugged at the drying blood. Sherlock simply laid back on the floor, his throat so very dry, everything too weak. He'd left it too long this time. He knew it. He'd known it, and yet-

He felt John's hands probing the wounded area, heard the tearing of fabric.

"Oi, I liked this shirt," he muttered .

"Too bad. Get a new one," was John's only reply, clearly absorbed in his work.

Sherlock's head lolled a bit against the floor, his mind still felt fuzzy, his senses dulled. There was an ache in his middle that he hadn't felt in days, but now it began grinding at him. He winced and shuddered.

"Sorry," said John, apparently thinking Sherlock's grimaces were his fault, "It's not deep, but it needs a good cleaning. Sherlock?"

The detective forced his eyes open again, finding John kneeling over him again, still looking angry.

The doctor pursed his lips then asked, "What the hell happened to you? I had no idea where you dashed off to, you didn't answer my texts, what the hell were you thinking?"

So his wound wasn't serious yet. That was good. He was well enough to be berated. That was encouraging.

"I had to find her before... I got to her. Brother's been picked up by the yard. Got a bit stabby with me," Sherlock answered, letting his head tip to his arm, "Coat stopped most of the damage. Lestrade's keeping it for evidence. I'll need to get it cleaned and patched up."

"And you couldn't be bothered to take me with you, is that it?" asked John with a sigh.

Sherlock forced his head back to look at John. "Not like that. Just... needed to do it alone."

"Why?"

"Dangerous."

John snorted. "Sherlock, that's how you always recruit me."

"Exactly why I didn't tell you," Sherlock replied with a small grin and some of his usual candor.

"Right, well, do you think you can stand? My med kit's in the bathroom, and like I said this needs a proper cleaning," said John.

"Perhaps. Not well."

He did manage it, but not without John's help. His head swam as he stood and he had to lean heavily on the shorter man. He felt John catch him around the chest, fingers pressing against his ribs. He winced again. John looked at him with further concern, but thankfully didn't say anything.

Together, they got Sherlock to the bathroom. John helped the man settle on the side of the tub, then dug around in a cabinet for supplies. Sherlock sat, shivering slightly, watching John fill the sink with warm water and lay out bandages, ointment, and swabs. He caught sight of his own reflection and stared. He looked... awful. His eyes were dark and sunken in. His skin looked oddly translucent as it stretched tightly across his cheekbones and temples, leaving hollows beneath. He swallowed and his adam's apple bobbed, plainly visible.

"Okay?"

Sherlock jumped and looked back at John. He nodded hurriedly.

"Probably need your shirt off for this," the doctor added, watching Sherlock patiently. Sherlock nodded again and undid his cuffs. He then started with his buttons, his fingers trembling slightly, thin spiders of bone and sinnew.

John took pity on him and stepped in to help. Sherlock let his own hands fall, watching as John's hands undid the buttons neatly and efficiently, baring his chest and stomach. Everything looked smaller than he remembered. Surely his chest hadn't been that narrow. He saw the ribs cleanly outlined as he drew in his breath. He shivered again, not daring to look at John.

His flat mate was now carefully removing his shirt, lifting the fabric to keep it from touching the wound along his upper tricep. Then he felt a touch of warm wetness over the wound, followed by a slight stinging sensation. He hissed, but did his best not to pull back, thought John's warm hand was still keeping him in place. Sherlock snuck a glance at him. His brow was furrowed, he looked troubled, but not by the wound.

They both sat in silence as John cleaned Sherlock's injury, dabbed ointment into it, and then bandaged it firmly.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered, accepting the t-shirt handed to him and pulling it on carefully.

"'Course," answered John, packing his things up. There was a pause then, "Fancy a takeaway for dinner?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes widening.

"Er, no. Not tonight. I don't... I don't think it would be good for me," he answered lamely. He met John's eye. "I... haven't really eaten... anything... for," he sighed and rubbed his face, "A really long time. I miscalculated. I wan- I wasn't planning on going for so long."

"Sherlock..." John groaned softly, "Why do you do this to yourself? I've told you a hundred times-"

"I know!" Sherlock snapped, then slumped a bit. "It slows me down, sometimes I just... forget."

"Hm."

Sherlock set his jaw, holding back more words that seemed in danger of tumbling out. For once he wished John would believe him, would call him out on this lie, take care of him and make him better but no.

"Tea maybe?" Sherlock offered.

John sighed and nodded. "Yeah, alright. I'll make you some chicken broth as well. We can see how you do with that. Sofa?"

"Thank you."

John helped Sherlock back to the sofa and helped him sit down. Then he threw a blanket onto him as well. Sherlock waited until John had gone to the kitchen to wrap it around himself, curling up against the arm of the sofa, his mind quite fuzzy and blank.

He might have dozed for a bit because in what seemed like just a moment, John was back, carrying a deep bowl and a sleeve of crackers. Sherlock's nostrils flared, taking in the salty scent of the steam that wafted from the bowl's surface. He pushed himself to sit up a bit more, staring at it hungrily, his tongue creeping out to wet his lips. It was really just a bowl of yellowish liquid, shiny droplets of oil drifting lazily across the top of it.

"Here, you are. Get some of that in you," said John, dipping a spoon into the bowl and sliding it closer. Sherlock stared at it, then reached out tentatively. His hand was still shaking so much that all of the soup slopped back into the bowl. He felt his cheeks color.

"Here, let me," John said, moving over and sitting beside his flatmate. He took the bowl, dipped the spoon in and then held it up. Sherlock silently and cautiously leaned forwards, then took a small sip.

Salty savory flavours flooded his mouth and his middle felt ready to devour itself. He gasped slightly, eyes closing again. He took a moment to breath again, then looked back at John. Another spoon of broth awaited him. He took this one with less hesitation. The next with something akin to eagerness, by the fourth of the fifth, he didn't think there was enough broth in the world to fill him. He took them as quickly as John could give them, almost whimpering for more when the offer wasn't immediate.

"John," he complained, reaching out for the bowl, "It's... it's not enough."

"I know, go slow though, yeah? It doesn't do you any good to make yourself sick," said John, but he handed it over regardless.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snatching at the bowl and bringing it to his lips. He gulped it down in long swallows, feeling the heat spread from his mouth, throat, and belly to every part of him. All too soon it was empty. He gasped for breath, muffled a small burp, and looked at the bottom of his bowl.

"Think you can handle a bit more?" John offered, reaching for it.

"I-yes. Thank you," Sherlock replied. As John went to refill the bowl, Sherlock dove for the crackers and began munching them down in a frenzy. His stomach churned now and again in complaint, but his brain was rewarding every mouthful with a surge of endorphins.

Then there was more soup which he drank down greedily again. His stomach gurgled loudly, then cramped. He let out a soft groan and doubled over slightly, crossing his arms over his middle. It was protruding slightly, a tiny round ball of discontent and fullness.

"I did warn you," said John gently. Sherlock huffed in response, glaring at him balefully. It seemed to soften him a bit.

"Want me to help?" John offered. Sherlock considered it a moment, then just nodded quietly, still grimacing as his stomach muscles were called back into action.

He flinched as John's hand found his stomach and began rubbing it gently. The detective grunted, feeling his cheeks heat again.

"John, really, it's fine. You don't have to," he bit out, ashamed of the roundness.

"I want to make sure you're alright," John replied firmly, "Let me know if something doesn't feel good. It's the least I can do. For a friend."

Sherlock swallowed and let his eyes close. It did feel a bit better.

"Thank you, John."


End file.
